Stranded at Sea
by Feather
Summary: Humor, of a sorts// Mr. Ollivander, wand-crafter, has a very trying day.


Title - Stranded at Sea, or A Very Trying Day for Mr. Ollivander  
  
Author - Feather  
  
Rating - PG  
  
Genre - Humor, of a sorts  
  
Category - Harry Potter  
  
Author's notes - I've been busy for quite a long time, and haven't had a chance to post anything at all, though I feel horrible about it. Today, stuck at home with pneumonia, I was struck with a bit of muse, finally, while watching the first Harry Potter movie. I'm just having a bit of fun with Ollivander here, though I can't say he deserves it. Enjoy!  
  
*  
  
Undoubtedly, it had been a very trying day for Mr. Ollivander and his wand- shop.  
  
Wand boxes had been excoriated from the walls, several shattered remnants of vases stood in tall piles along the edge of the room, and a large stack of papers to filed littered his desk. Sighing and massaging his temples, posture radiating defeat, poor Mr. Ollivander wished for nothing more than a steaming mug of willow bark tea and an easy chair with a nice heating charm. Having been in the wand business for over a millennia, the Ollivander family should have developed genes of some sort to ward off this tiredness, Mr. Ollivander thought. As he sat down in his spindly chair, the solitary monument of some sort of order that presided above the chaos, he felt it creak and collapse beneath him. Suppressing a sob, he eased himself out the mess, and started to look for his own wand to clear up the wreckage, deploring his life.  
  
The day hadn't started out so horribly, and in fact hadn't been as bad as it could have been. Summer season was the best time for the wand business in Diagon Alley, particularly in August, with new students embarking to Hogwarts in need of wands. Though he didn't want to cheapen the art of wand making by saying he mass-produced wands in the off season, Mr. Ollivander had to admit selling wands was much more satisfactory then handcrafting each of them. The prospect of new sales speeding the awakening process, Mr. Ollivander had started his morning in possibly as good a mood as he could have for that given day.  
  
Mr. Ollivander lived in the apartment above his shop, as had his father and grandfather, and all of the Ollivander who had made wands in Diagon Alley since the fifteenth century. However, an unpleasant sight reached his eyes the moment he stepped into the lower-level shop: a small crowd of students was starting to gather near the door. Though he had to admit he had awoken a bit later than usual that morning, it couldn't be later than opening time, nine o'clock. Checking his watch, he saw that it was half past ten, and, straightening the faded purple cushion and the wand it displayed in his front window, he braced himself for his customers before flipping over the equally faded 'Open' sign.  
  
His first customer he was certain would be a Hufflepuff. Though he himself had been a Ravenclaw, almost a century ago, he was sure that the house could not have changed overly much. Hufflepuffs, though widely acclaimed as good-hearted, also had a tendency, at least in his senile recollections, to be a bit daft. A nervous looking girl who was by herself took an awe-filled look at the towering stacks of wand boxes and abruptly started to giggle, though perhaps from nervousness. Attaining an air of mystique he hoped would dampen her frivolousness, he put his spectacles on from around the chain on his neck and examined her face before remarking, "Ah yes, Maybelle Perks. I remember when your father came in, buying his first wand. It was nine inches, quite flexible, made from.was it ash? Yes, indeed, and it was quite nice for Transfiguration, though it traded potency for immediate assumption of power." He didn't expect a response - he hardly ever received one - and nodded his acquiescence to sit on a stool. "Let's see, where to begin.well, I always find it best to begin at the beginning, so let's try an oak wand. Around.twelve inches? You seem to have a good deal more height than your mother does - she always has been short, hasn't she? - so I'll skip the measurements."  
  
He handed the wand over, and she nodded to his comment, then waved the wand hesitantly. It evoked no response. "Hmm.try ebony and unicorn hair, quite springy, around eight and a half inches." She waved this one a bit more confidently, and surely enough, a waterfall of sparks emerged from her wand in yellow and black, another indication of a future Hufflepuff. Parceling her purchase and accepting the seven galleons with a bow, he sent her off with a dismissal of, "Hopefully, it serves you well."  
  
The next customer would probably amount to a Hufflepuff as well, Mr. Ollivander mused. The next customer, however, amounted to someone much more troublesome than the previous. Briefly noting body posture and telltale facial features, Mr. Ollivander greeted the boy who stood examining his surroundings with a whispered, "Hello, Aaron Fleming, you do resemble your father." The boy jumped, but nodded, and sat in the single chair in the room. "Straight to the point, aren't you? Well, get off, boy!" Reaching for a measuring tape in his pocket, Mr. Ollivander let it go and take necessary measurements before starting to flit about the shelves, thinking about the sorts of wands the boy might try.  
  
"That will do," he said, looking at the tape measure sternly. This particular tape measure, a recent creation, enjoyed its job entirely too much, and became recalcitrant when told to stop without force, and even churlish to a point for some time afterwards. "Try this wand, if you will, Mr. Fleming. Yew, dragon-heartstring core, and eleven inches in length. Quite powerful." Aaron accepted the wand and waved it enthusiastically, pointing it at a rather chipped antique vase, which appeared to have seen better days. For what Mr. Ollivander felt he had probably heard for the thousandth time, the vase cracked from a wayward spell sent by a wand that clashed with the wielder. Aaron looked extremely apologetic, but excited by the results.  
  
"Is it this one, then, Mr. Ollivander?" he said, voice mirroring his father's Irish brogue to the exact degree.  
  
"Most definitely not." Pinching the bridge of his nose and hoping futilely to ward of an inevitable headache, Mr. Ollivander reached for a random box off of the shelf. "Remember, Mr. Fleming, the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around! Try this one: holly, nine and a half inches, and a phoenix feather core." Receiving this one with slightly less enthusiasm, Aaron waved the wand at a shelf of neatly stacked boxes, all of which were much less neatly arranged a moment later.  
  
"Err.quite sorry, sir," he said, eyes widening in fear of a reprimand.  
  
"Some customers are trickier to pin than others, Mr. Fleming," Mr. Ollivander said lightly. "No worries. Here, maple, phoenix feather, twelve inches." Closing his eyes for another sort of explosion, Mr. Ollivander was delightedly surprised when he opened his eyes to the boy holding a wand which showered silver and green sparks. Slytherin colors, Mr. Ollivander noted idly, before gently taking the wand before the boy became too engrossed in the sparks and lit something on fire. "I'll package this up for you, then. Seven galleons will suffice grandly, Mr. Fleming," he said with a thin-lipped smile. Bowing another customer out of the shop, Mr. Ollivander braced himself for the brutal onslaught of the rest of the day.  
  
Which had culminated into a horribly dreadful mess, Mr. Ollivander thought, searching for his wand on his desk. "I still have all of these wand identification slips to file, as well," he spoke aloud to himself, ruing the day he had been born. Though he did, indeed, remember every single wand that he sold, the Ministry of Magic was closing in on wand shops, enforcing the requirements that demanded a profile of each wand sold. He really didn't blame them, usually, due to the new, anonymous attacks of darker wizards, but at this particular moment, he did not particularly care. "Damnable, bloody Ministry of Magic," he said, savoring the words on his tongue.  
  
As he cleared piles of papers off of his desk, searching for his wand and imbuing his spoken musings of the Ministry with various curses, the room became progressively more messy as night fell over Diagon Alley, darkening the shop to a point where further search was impossible. Finally giving up, settling himself in the midst of the horrendous clutter that agitated the fastidious part of his conscience, Mr. Ollivander suddenly found his current situation extremely ironic. "I'm surrounded by wands, but I can only use mine to clean this entire bleeding mess up," he said, hysteria approaching as he surveyed the room. "Like a man dying of thirst stranded at sea, surrounded by salt water and needing fresh."  
  
What, indeed, a trying, trying day.  
  
*  
  
Closing notes - I wasn't really aiming for humor here, though I'm partial to irony, myself :). Rather, just a peek at poor, tragic Mr. Ollivander. I know there was a bit of Hufflepuff bashing, but I was trying to make him all the more senile. I love Hufflepuffs, they're great - half of my friends fit their description perfectly. Thanks to everyone, everywhere, for reading this. Feedback is appreciated. This is dedicated to Hayley-chan, again, and to several more of my sick friends who I'm sure wouldn't want their names mentioned on the internet: just because they're so sick and need something to cheer them up a bit.  
  
Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Harry Potter or any other related titles and works. 


End file.
